Ghost Town

by Jason Hawes

  She wasn’t far from the wall, though. About three feet. If she could manage to lean forward and stand on her toes, she might be able to shuffle backward and get closer to the wall. And once she was within a foot of it, she could shove the chair back against it with as much force as she could muster. And if the first blow didn’t break the chair, she could try again and again—assuming she could manage to avoid tipping over. Once she was on her side, she feared she would be as helpless as a turtle flipped onto its shell. But she figured that if she could keep her balance, there was a good chance that if the chair didn’t break right away, it would land on all four of its legs. Then she could lean forward and try again.

  She sat for a moment and ran through the plan in her head, visualizing it as completely as possible, testing it for flaws. But in the end, she knew that, good idea or not, she was going to go through with it. What choice did she have? And if she ended up breaking a couple of bones, so be it. A shattered wrist or a fractured elbow would be infinitely preferable to what Mitch would do to her when the Dark Lady finally let go of his leash.

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath to calm herself, and let it out slowly. Then she opened her eyes—

  —and saw the Dark Lady standing before her.

  Lips as white and bloodless as marble stretched into a smile.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Jenn. I still need you.”

  Behind her gag, Jenn let out a muffled cry of frustrated rage, and the Dark Lady’s dead smile widened.

  “We need to do something!” Trevor said. “And don’t tell me we already are. Sitting around a hotel room reading through computer files isn’t going to help us find Jenn!”

  Amber had never seen Trevor so worked up before. But she understood. She would have gone nuts if Drew had vanished. And while it was still possible that Jenn had left of her own accord, the fact that she’d gone without packing up anything—books, money box, overnight bag, clothes, toiletries—wasn’t a good sign. Yes, she had been traumatized by the day’s events, but she hadn’t exhibited any signs of being that absentminded. And Amber couldn’t imagine her leaving without letting Trevor know. They might not be a couple anymore, but she still had strong feelings for him. She wouldn’t have departed without a word, leaving Trevor to worry about her.

  “You’ve done everything you can,” she said. “You’ve tried calling her a dozen times, both on her cell and at the store, and you’ve reported her disappearance to the police.”

  Amber, Drew, Trevor, Greg, and Carrington were camped out in Erin’s room. Erin sat at the desk, her laptop open in front of her. Her face was drawn and expressionless, and she had said very little since they had arrived. It was obvious that she was taking Ray’s death hard. Amber, Drew, and Greg sat on the bed closer to the window, while Carrington sat on the other bed, next to him a stack of manila folders filled with paper and Trevor’s open laptop. As for Trevor, he paced the room with the wire-taut tension of a caged animal.

  “And not to be too much of a downer,” Greg said, “but if either the Dark Lady or Mitch got hold of Jenn, there’s nothing you can do for her now, anyway.”

  Trevor stopped and spun around to glare at Greg. “If you weren’t in someone else’s—” He broke off and glanced around the room, as if just remembering that Carrington and Erin were there. “Well, if you weren’t, I’d break your jaw right now.”

  “Lucky for me, eh?” Greg’s tone was flippant, but something cold moved in his gaze, and Amber was reminded that while he might be trying to help them—and in the process find some measure of redemption for himself—he couldn’t entirely be trusted.

  “She’s alive, Trevor,” Amber said. “I can feel it.”

  Drew caught her eye and raised an eyebrow. She knew what he was asking. Did she really have a psychic sense that Jenn was all right, or was she just trying to reassure Trevor? In truth, Amber wasn’t certain herself. She didn’t want to give Trevor false hope, but neither did she want him to lose all hope.

  “Really?” he asked. The pleading tone in that one word nearly broke Amber’s heart.

  She looked deep inside herself before answering. “Yes,” she said, and she meant it.

  Trevor let out a long breath, and some of the tension left his body. He sat down on the bed next to Carrington. “All right. So . . . the Dark Lady.” He looked down at his computer screen and began typing. “I saved all my research on Exeter in one file. Give me a second to call it up . . . There we go. Now I’ll highlight the phrase Dark Lady, go through the document, and check every mention of her.”

  Several moments passed as Trevor skimmed the information.

  “Not much here, I’m afraid. I did an article on the influx of ghostbreakers in the early days after the flood, and I mentioned the Dark Lady in it. She was one of the spirits they were hoping to exorcise. None of the attempts to get rid of her was successful, though, and she continued appearing periodically over the years. That’s all I have.”

  “I believe I can add to that,” Carrington said. “I did much of the research for Erin’s film”—he patted the stack of folders on the bed next to him—“and I ran across a number of references to the Dark Lady. Enough that I tried to persuade Erin to feature her in the film.”

  “She wasn’t very interesting,” Erin said. Her voice was toneless, almost machinelike. “She’d show up, people would see her, she’d stand there for a few seconds, and then she would disappear. Not dramatic at all, and certainly not dangerous.” She paused, then added more softly, “Not until now, anyway.”

  “Maybe she stepped up her game in hope of getting a bigger part in your magnum opus,” Greg said.

  Trevor stood up. “I’ve had just about enough—”

  “Don’t let her get to you,” Amber said quickly, adding a subtle emphasis to the word her. While they had no need to keep Greg’s identity secret from Carrington and Erin, they had agreed that things were complicated enough without telling them that one of their group was possessed by a formerly evil spirit.

  Trevor glanced at Amber, nodded, and sat back down. He glared at Greg, who just smiled back, unconcerned.

  “Do you have any information about the Dark Lady’s first appearance?” Drew asked.

  Before Carrington could answer, Greg said, “I’m not sure that’s relevant. I told you my theory that the Dark Lady is in essence a mask for the accumulated spiritual energy of Exeter. If that’s the case, then she’s not an individual, and knowing details about her won’t be of any help.”

  “If she is a mask, then there has to be reason the town not only chose her but continues to use her,” Drew said. “The more we can learn about her, the more we’ll learn about the collective entity you theorize is behind her mask.”

  “It’s not a person, Drew,” Greg said. “You can’t psychoanalyze it.”

  “If a creature exhibits behavior, it can be understood,” Drew said, “whatever its nature. And if this entity is using the Dark Lady as an avatar, her personality—her needs and desires—might shape its behavior.”

  “Besides,” Trevor said, “a haunting needs some kind of focal point. A touchstone in our world. Something to link a spiritual being to this plane of existence and keep it here, right? If there was a real person who died and became the original Dark Lady, the details of her life, and death, might help us discover what that touchstone is. And once we know that—”

  “We’ll be able to sever the link keeping her here,” Amber said. “And once the Dark Lady is gone—”

  “The rest of the town’s spirits might lose their collective identity and separate,” Greg said. “Rendering them if not exactly harmless, then at least far less of a threat.”

  Erin looked at Carrington. “Do you have any idea what they’re talking about?”

  “I believe so. Most of it, anyway. They’re saying that if we uncover the origin of the Dark Lady, we might find a way to stop her.”

  “OK, that I understand. So, what else do you have on her?”

  “Not
much more than what’s written about her in the museum, I’m afraid,” Carrington said. “I have a list of times and places where she was reported to manifest, but I’m sure it’s not complete. In my experience, not everyone who witnesses a paranormal event is willing to talk about it. Even in a town such as Exeter.” He pulled a piece of paper from one of the folders. “But here’s what I have on her appearances.” He handed it to Trevor, who quickly skimmed it.

  “The earliest appearances are in the 1930s. Three of them. But there’s nothing to indicate what order they occurred in.”

  “The sources where I got the information were sadly lacking in specifics,” Carrington said.

  “I don’t see anything special about the locations. One was on a street corner, another in a vacant field, and the third was in an alley.”

  Trevor started to hand the list to Amber, but then, as if he’d thought better of it, he instead handed it to Greg, although reluctantly.

  Greg scanned the list. “I agree. Nothing special here.” He handed the list to Amber, and she and Drew looked it over.

  The information meant nothing to Amber. She hoped that she might get a psychic hit from one of the locations, but they were just words on paper to her.

  Drew looked at Carrington. “Do you have any information about the attempts to exorcise her spirit? Especially the first one?”

  Carrington frowned. “I seem to remember something about that.” He searched through a couple of folders before finding what he was looking for. “Here it is.” He read it over. “It took place at a local medium’s home in 1942. A half-dozen spiritualists gathered to make contact with the Dark Lady, learn what bound her to the earthly plane, and try to help guide her to the afterlife. They managed to make contact and heard a single word issue from the air. Stop.” His eyes widened. “Yes! I remember now! This is why the incident at the museum nagged at my mind so.”

  “The manifestation of the word would appear to suggest a connection between that attempt to exorcise her spirit and whatever has set her off this time,” Drew said.

  Amber frowned. “But I thought Stop meant she wanted Erin to quit making her film. How does exorcism equate with making a documentary?”

  “People once believed that making an image of an individual was a way to capture the soul,” Carrington said. “That’s the basis for a great deal of magic. The image represents the thing it copies, allowing the spell caster to work his or her will upon it.”

  Trevor nodded. “And when photography was invented, some aboriginal cultures believed that a photo could capture a person’s spirit.”

  “Seems a rather tenuous connection to me,” Greg said. “But I suppose it’s possible.”

  “But if that’s the case, why not just kill Erin?” Amber asked. “We’ve talked about this before. She’s the driving force behind the film. The simplest way to stop the film is to stop her. There has to be a reason the Dark Lady is attacking others instead of her.”

  “Maybe she wants to punish me,” Erin said softly. “Maybe she wants me to feel responsible for the people she’s killed.”

  “You’re not,” Drew said. “Whatever sort of entity the Dark Lady is, she makes her own choices. Even if she’s essentially mindless, you’re no more responsible for what she does than you would be responsible for the actions of a shark.”

  “But what if I pushed people into the water without knowing a hungry shark lurked beneath the surface? Even if I didn’t mean for anyone to be hurt, they still died because of my actions.”

  “I’m a therapist,” Drew said, “and that means I have all sorts of stock responses I can give to try to make you feel better. But the bottom line is that you can play all the what-if scenarios you want, but you’ll never get an answer, because there isn’t one. Once we make choices, they’re done. It’s what we do with the choices that lie ahead of us that’s truly important. We have to focus on what we can do now to stop the Dark Lady—before she can hurt anyone else.”

  Erin looked at Drew for a moment, face expressionless. But finally, she managed a small smile and nodded.

  Amber turned to Carrington. “Do you have the address where the exorcism was attempted?”

  He shook his head. “The source I found said only ‘home of a local medium.’ It didn’t even provide the person’s name.”

  “Do you think that might be the focal point we’re looking for?” Drew asked.

  “It feels right,” Amber said.

  “If that’s the case, then it would suggest that the Beyond the Veil Museum is the focal point,” Drew said. “That’s where the word Stop manifested this time. Perhaps the museum building was once the medium’s home.”

  “But the museum isn’t the first place the Dark Lady appeared this time,” Trevor said. “That was at Jenn’s store.”

  “No,” Erin said. “It was several days earlier than that, out at the Reilly Farm, when Alex was shooting some location footage, remember? When he—” She broke off, unable to complete the sentence.

  When he bought the farm, Greg mouthed. Amber was grateful that he hadn’t said it aloud. She supposed even that meager sign of self-restraint was progress of a sort.

  “Do you still have the footage?” Trevor asked.

  Erin nodded. “But if you’re thinking there’s anything to be learned from it, you’re going to be disappointed. Just before Alex is attacked, the footage becomes distorted, just like what happened to the security video from the museum.”

  “I know it will be difficult for you,” Drew said, “but if you could show us the footage, it might prove useful. We might notice something about it that you missed.”

  “Chief Hoffman had me make him a copy, and he didn’t learn anything from it,” Erin said. She sighed. “But I have it on my laptop. Just let me bring it up.”

  She turned to her computer and began typing on the keyboard. The others gathered around behind her so they could better view the screen. The footage had been shot with a simple handheld camera, and Alex provided occasional commentary as he walked around the Reilly Farm. He had a warm, soothing voice that Amber thought would have been great for a late-night DJ. Since the footage was shot from his viewpoint, he wasn’t visible in the frame, and she found it strange to know that she was witnessing the last moments of this man’s life without having any idea what he looked like.

  It had been a sunny fall afternoon, and honey-colored light gave the area a soft, gentle glow, the beautiful illumination a counterpoint to the abandoned farm. The fields had been left to go to seed, and the grass around the farmhouse and barn was waist high. The buildings themselves were in relatively good repair, however, and Amber figured the farm hadn’t been deserted very long. Probably a casualty of the bad economy of the last few years. Alex didn’t say much as he roamed the property, reserving his remarks for locations that he thought would work well in the film, such as the stately oak tree behind the farmhouse and the empty horse corral. Overall, he seemed underwhelmed by the farm as a possible location for filming.

  “On a spook scale of one to ten, I’d rate this place a point five,” he said. “Maybe the barn will be more creepy. Let’s take a look.”

  He walked toward the barn—it was painted brown instead of the stereotypical red and had a corrugated metal roof. Amber wondered what it would sound like inside when it rained. It would probably sound like a million tiny hammers pounding overhead. It took some effort for Alex to slide open the large outer door, and the rollers creaked and groaned, as if they hadn’t been asked to work in years and weren’t too happy about it. It was dark inside, but enough sunlight filtered in to see by. Alex paused a moment at the entrance and panned the camera back and forth. The floor was concrete, and several pieces of farm equipment had been left behind by the owners: a rickety old manure spreader, an ancient riding mower that looked as if it were ninety-nine-percent rust, and an equally rust-eaten hay elevator standing propped up against the wall next to a horse stall.

  “Nope. Still not scary.” Alex stepped inside the
barn.

  Erin hadn’t said anything up to this point, but now she spoke. “I had Alex check out the farm because of reports that people driving by hear horse noises coming from the barn, especially at night. Supposedly, the cries are so loud sometimes that they sound more like screams.”

  “Here, horsey-horsey-horsey.” Alex followed this up by clicking his tongue several times, but if there were any spectral equines in the barn, they didn’t respond.

  “I don’t know about this, Erin. Maybe if we add some sound effects of our own, some horses whinnying, and add a ghostly echo to it. Still, it seems lame to me. I suppose if we could track down some witnesses to interview, though . . .”

  Alex continued walking through the barn as he talked, and he now passed near the hay elevator. It was a long, narrow metal machine with a hook-studded conveyer belt designed to grab hold of hay bales and transport them up to the loft. One of Amber’s uncles had a farm, and when she was growing up, she would sometimes visit and help out with chores. She had used a hay elevator before, although never one so old that it looked as if it might fall apart any minute.

  Then, without warning, the picture dissolved into waves of electronic distortion. The picture cleared after thirty seconds or so, but knowing what had happened to Alex during that interval made the time seem much longer. When the image returned, at first Amber wasn’t certain what she was looking at. It was blue and white, with a criss-cross pattern. Then she realized that the camera was lying on the ground, on its side, the lens pointing at one of Alex’s shoes. The criss-cross pattern was his shoelaces.

  “The film continues like this for almost forty minutes,” Erin said. “After that, his cell rings. It was me, calling to find out what was taking him so long. When he didn’t answer, I got angry and drove there to find out what was going on. I . . . found him. But the battery on his camera ran down before I got there. I don’t remember what I said and did when I saw him, but I’m glad it wasn’t recorded. I don’t think I could stand hearing it.”